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Harry in the woods, in the dead of summer. Wandering into places before checking them out on TripAdvisor, unstructured days and late, late nights and full hours of sunshine lost to the inside of a dusty vintage shop whose clutter and corduroy pants have him standing. That's all Alanna wants.
Lassoed within the pristine hiking countryside, near Windermere in Cumbria, northwest England, glimmers Helm Mint, an idyllic retreat for newlyweds. It's a misty wonderland in close vicinity to Hawkshead. There's not a ton to do in town, but there are redwoods and hiking trails. Helm Mint is a handful of cottages with grass roofs, fog-cloaked patios, and a herd of goats grazing the well-manicured shrubbery.
They rent bikes and rumble over the cobblestone streets. They take long hikes on mountain trails during the day with their sweatshirts shed and tied around waists, only to wind up at different outdoor patios, sipping red wine and sharing multiple plates of fries with pressed garlic and freshly grated Parmesan.
They sit outside until they're goosebump-covered and shivering, and then pull on their sweaters, and Alanna draws her knees up to her chest inside hers. One time, Harry leans over and flicks the hood up over her head, then tugs the drawstrings tight so that only the very middle of her face is visible, and most of that is blocked by tufts of wind-tangled hair.
On the second to last day, the house is chilly–Alanna'd left the windows open and they'd fogged as the temperature began to inch back up with the morning. Harry was scrunched nearly into the fetal position, one throw blanket wrapped around himself, so she draped the two blankets she'd been using over him as she crept into the kitchen, closing the door on her way out.
It's a still, blue morning. If the sun has come up, it is caught behind a sheet of mist. As quietly as Alanna can, she pulls the bag of ground coffee and the French press from the lazy Susan.
She isn't a coffee snob herself, but starts most mornings with something drinkable enough to have it black. She fills the kettle and turns the burner on, that warm, earthy smell of gas leaping to life with the flame. She then plugs the grinder in and stares out the window as it works. Last night's mist has held out, cloaking the strip of woods between the house and the little stream in deep greys and blues. She shivers, pulling Harry's lilac robe tighter around her shoulders.
She waits on her phone while the coffee is steeping.
She closes her email and turns around to find Harry shuffling into the kitchen, the heel of his hand rubbing at his eye. His chocolate brown hair sticks up to one side and his T-shirt is creased like a piece of ancient parchment behind glass at a museum, one of the sleeves twisted up on itself to reveal more of his arm. Alanna feels suddenly greedy for his shoulders.
She bites the inside of her cheeks, turns her back to him and digs through the cabinets for a couple of mugs.
"That coffee ready?" He kisses her good morning. It's sweet, warm and spongy.
"Very nearly."
"Porch or patio?" he asks.
"Patio."
The timer goes off and she presses the coffee and pours some into two mugs shaped like cartoonish orca whales. Harry accepts the proffered coffee and they take it out onto the patio, mist pleasantly chilling every bare inch of their skin.
Harry leans forward and catches Alanna in a viciously slow, dementedly hot kiss, his fingers spanning the side of her face. Burying his face into the side of my neck, his hot breath wakes something up beneath her skin. Her hands skim down the curved muscle of his arms and knot into his rough fingers. Pale bright sunlight peeks through the thin blankets of clouds and streaks a pale tangerine. Harry lifts his face and looks her in the eye again, the light leaping in great licks through the gaps in the moving clouds to paint him with colour.
It's an unabashed moment, a comfortable silence.
She tries to imagine cabin fever. She tries to imagine this getting old: that smile, those rumpled clothes, the language only Harry and Alanna speaks.
They share a smile over the lip of their respective mugs.
She feels a little light, a little floaty.
Happy. That low, steady level of happiness that, in the best periods of life, rides underneath everything else, a buffer between you and the world you are walking over.
